To Stare Down the Moon

There was once a time when the king opened a great contest to find the best painter in his kingdom, for he had wanted a portrait done of his fine and elegant wife. To the artists he had it decreed that they should capture the beauty of their magnificent country, and then they would be allowed the honor of portraying their queen onto canvas.

When a farmer had heard this, excitement crawled all along his spine, for he had it in his heart his whole life long to be recognized as an outstanding painter. Surely, he thought to himself, no one knows the magnificence of this land better than I. It is not only my eyes that have taken it in, but my bare feet have taken root in the earth, my hands are filled with its vegetation, and my lungs draw in the whole day and night its fresh air. The farmer quickly went to work on his masterpiece, taking the entirety of three days. When his painting of rolling hills and a herd of sheep was completed, he took it by foot to the castle. Amongst the throng of other hopeful artists, the farmer was pushed and jostled until his painting dropped into the mud.

Horrified by the incident, the farmer did not notice when the king himself came out of the castle. The throng respectfully retreated back and provided their king with room. The king saw the farmer had not moved, and interpreted his stillness as boldness. Upon command a guard picked up the farmer's entry into the contest and displayed it before the king. The king pointed at the mud caked canvas, and along with all present, began to laugh and ridicule the farmer until he ran away in utter humiliation.

Taking refuge on a lonely hilltop, the farmer sobbed into his hands. When he raised his face again, it was night and the moon stared at him.

"Why must you stare at me? I have been ridiculed enough," he said to the moon.

The moon replied, "You are a funny little man. Only funny men present dirt to their kings when they ask for art."

"You did not see me paint it, then," the farmer answered him dejectedly.

The ornery moon goaded him, "I wish I had, for then I would have seen a funny man at work at his funny art. I will not miss what amusing thing you will do next.”

“Stop staring,” the farmer said angrily. “Stop staring and do not add to my humiliation.”

But the moon continued to stare the whole time the farmer marched to his home. The farmer briefly entered his lodge and came out again. With his back straight and his voice strong, he declared to the moon, “If you will continue to stare, then I will stare right back.”

The moon laughed, “You will not beat me at my favorite game.”

The staring contest had begun. Minutes passed by, then hours. The moon slowly inched away, but the farmer strolled so as not to lose sight of him. Dawn broke, and still there was not a winner to declare. The moon tried to get behind a curtain of clouds, but the farmer climbed a mountain. The moon attempted to hide behind the sun, but the farmer bravely asked the fiery tempered sun not to interfere with the contest, and he acquiesced. The moon was worried he might lose and tried inciting the farmer. “You can not win. Your eyes will become dry and tired. Your stomach will ache from hunger. Your throat will become parched. The breeze will carry pollen into your nostrils and you will sneeze. Achoo!” The moon feigned sneezing.

The man bore his teeth into a smile. “Sir Moon, even if I should blink first, I would still be the victor, for I have stared you down despite all my faults. I have stood, I have walked, I have you chased you at the cost of my own needs while you, sir Moon, have sat in the sky with nothing to press you.”

The moon, afraid, attempted to elude the farmer, but could not. Soon people all across the kingdom had heard about the contest and came out to watch the farmer, cheering him. After a day, the moon’s brightness was cut by a sliver, then another and another, as each day passed by. After fourteen days of the contest, the moon finally blinked.

The king himself had started spectating this extraordinary contest, and upon its completion he called the farmer to his side. 

“My good man,” said the king, “I am greatly impressed by your resolve to stare down the moon. How did you find it within yourself to accomplish such a feat?”

The farmer bowed his head while looking into his king’s face. “My lord, please watch closely,” and he blinked, revealing his eyelids to be perfectly painted irises.

The king gasped. “You have captured your own eyes! If you are able to perfectly mimic the very windows to the soul, then you are truly worthy of painting our queen. Allow my patronage and be honored in the manner you deserve.”

The farmer answered him, “I will paint our queen, but I ask for payment as well, enough to allow me to move all I have beyond the mountains. For, as an artist, I can no longer stand to live in a country that has lost its beauty to me.”

The farmer was then known as Master Painter, and his wishes were granted.

Moonblade, Ch. 1

Escape From Hiberia
Ch. 1

Playing in the shade of a requiem

"I don't think that's going to work," Akari commented as she furrowed her brow. She sat where she spent most of her lunchbreaks, beneath the large oak a hundred meters behind the school. Unlike most of her lunchbreaks, however, she was surrounded by the majority of her classmates.

As last years, they had gathered together under the oak's shade to discuss their farewell prank. Akari had little interest in the topic, but felt even less interest in leaving her favorite spot. Though often alone, when she leaned against the elderly trunk she felt a far away echo of an embrace, like a friend was nearby. The notion sounded somewhat insane, therefore she never expressed it aloud. Then again, no one had ever cared to ask her about her insistence on sitting here, and Akari knew herself that enjoying the company of trees was the least of what made her unusual.

So I want this story about Sly Dog and Silly Goose, two detectives who solve Carmen Sandiego type crimes. Yeah, I want to do that.

Neglect

A graying man seated by the water jet
a sign in his lap asking for charity,
a pen in his hand, the tip no longer wet,
his belt revealing help is a scarcity
I'm curious, so I ask him one time
why do you sit here alone with a sign,
having people toss up a nickel, a dime
isn't there some charitable hotline?
He shakes his head, surly and sour
I tried speaking, but no one had heard
so rather than waste another hour
I saved my breath and wrote this word
But your sign, I reply, says help please
I believe that is two words, isn't it?
He grimaces at my joking tease
the problem is no one else notices

A young woman enters the fray
offers the man a sandwich and turns
It's my friend who vanished one day
she says to me, you know what burns?
When you feel you have to disappear
for people to finally remember you
as if by being mute, they'd want to hear
everything, but that's just not true
wait, I interrupt, where did you go?
You felt ignored? Why the pretension?
It's your fault, you had let no one know
No, she breathed, no one had paid attention

Magic Notebook part 1

    I clutch my red spiral to my chest as I lean in for a drink of water. It's passing time, and I have but four minutes to make it to History of Western Civilization from "the stupid math", the level of math that means I'm just average. They happen to be on opposite sides of the poorly designed, oblong campus. At a leisurely pace, it takes easily six minutes. I'll have to jog part of the way, because there is no chance I am going to let my mouth stay as dry as that math class was. I really should start bringing a water bottle.
    "Kim, we gotta go!" someone says right before they pull my backpack in the direction of History. I get a little water sprinkled on my notebook and shirt.
    "Thanks," I reply a little sarcastically before I turn to my friend.  I see that it's Michelle: brown hair, blue eyes, befreckled. She must have hooked my backpack right after coming out of the bathroom.

Call Me

    It was the shrill sound of a midi ringtone that awoke the young man from his nap on the park bench. At its peel his eyes flew open and his ears instinctively acted as radars to determine its location. He leaned over, surprised to find the phone face down on the ground.

Deathday Club - part 2

There’s a confidence fueled swagger that you only see on actors on the big screen. The one that says, “I can’t die, sucka.” And it’s true. The character can’t die in the film. But actors have to dip into their craft for the effect. Mine is second nature, and it’s real.